


Dragon's Share

by Heilith



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-01-07 05:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12226890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heilith/pseuds/Heilith
Summary: As requested by my Tumblr friend @tsukuyomi011 - “A Thranduil!AU where he is an incredibly famous actor falling for his equally famous co-star for a movie- loving her from afar and preparing to wait for her when he knows how happy she is with one of best actors in Hollywood- Smaug of all people”Modern!Thranduil, Human!Smaug. Name changes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Modern!Thranduil, Human!Smaug. Since I had to stick to the near real settings, the names are changed to Ruston Spring for Thranduil and Rhys Burrow for Smaug. In a way, both are translations of the canon names. :) 
> 
> A Thranduil!AU where he is an incredibly famous actor falling for his equally famous co-star for a movie- loving her from afar and preparing to wait for her when he knows how happy she is with one of best actors in Hollywood- Smaug of all people

**Dragon’s Share**

**Prologue**

“Enjoyed your evening?”

The contrast between the dark suite and the brightly lit hall outside made the arrival seem taller than he was, almost matching the host himself in height.

Ruston flicked the switch, and the ante-room filled with light, too, but the unwelcome presence didn’t become less tangible.

It was unpleasant to see the man at the door not bothering to blink, as if the sudden flash in the eyes was a small trouble for him.

“I’m barely in, Rhys. And I don’t remember inviting you.”

He didn’t sound as laid-back as intended. Being ambushed in his own territory did ugly things to his reserve.

The guest shrugged offhandedly.

“Alas,” said he, lips folding into a friendly smile, “No one invites a dragon.”

A step forward brought him nearly chest to chest with Ruston.

“We have our feelings, too,” added he, the statement laced with humbleness.

A tense minute after Ruston had to admit he had lost the score. The prompt was voiced, and the silence was dragging on. The self-proclaimed “dragon” hadn’t earned his laurels for the pretty face. That was one asset he didn’t have. But, as any good actor, he knew how to handle a pause.

Ruston watched him with a mixture of disgust and sick respect. The man was too smart to aim at intimidating him, but he still played him like a rattle, adding to his annoyance with that smirk of a lazy murderer.

He obviously enjoyed every moment of it.

Ridiculous. Everything about him was ridiculous. The colourless eyes, the lanky form, the weak, unkissable mouth.

The nature must have realized how the faulty this particular child of hers turned out to be, and hurried to make up for its own negligence, pitching in the willpower and charisma, enough to twist the worlds of most unfortunate people, who ever laid their eyes on him.

And those who ever laid their eyes on them.

Ruston moved - away, not back. After all, they had to collide head-on sooner or later. He’d rather end it as quickly as it had come to the point. He had already danced away his chance to alter the script. The best thing he could do now was not to pick up the part assigned to him.

“A drink?” offered he icily.

“Yes, thank you.”

The wine was finished off in silence. The best one the hotel could provide. If he had to last through the joust, he could as well sweeten the pill for both of them.

Rhys tarried, slipping a sharp tongue between his lips in a slow, lizard-like fashion. The last drops of wine showed foul red on his mouth. The remains of a blood-drinker’s meal…

“Perfect,” purred he, restoring the glass to the table, “Now…Cue threats.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a biiit NSFW. :)

**Dragon’s share.**

**Part 1.**

His body was a wooden puppet. It followed the orders of the master diligently, but there was about as much grace in its movements as any stringed mannequin could achieve.

Like he had never shared a bed with a woman before.  

The cheap old lights didn’t help it, warming the set by ten degrees a second, non-stop. He was sweating at the smallest effort, growing more and more disgusted at his own slippery clumsiness.  

You, on the contrary, remained as fresh as it could be. Perhaps, you were naturally tolerant to heat. Or the makeup department did a better job on you. Not likely that… There was not a trace of it under his fingers, no matter where they roamed.

But yes, you felt plain good. Better than anything he could remember for years.

Your turn to indulge him came too soon.

Ruston closed his eyes. The light kisses you were trailing up his jawline were echoing with cutting pain somewhere deeper than his guts. Every cell in him was a crumble of glass, rubbing into his skin and muscles from the inside.  

Sexual frustration was not an empty sound for him. He had dragged himself through the worst of it ages ago. The pointless lust for someone gone forever, the way too vivid dreams, the adjustments…

The first encounters were angry. Laden with guilt, quick and unsatisfying for either party. He was bending and breaking himself gradually, till the things were smoother and he almost learnt to accept his need for the new beginnings again.

…His inner metronome was counting off seconds till the next move.

Now. Ruston’s left hand drifted over your belly, climbing up slowly, covering your breast. He pulled back for a moment, and renewed the ministrations, as required. The writers had probably never been laid. His palm hovered over the very tip of your nipple, then lowered down for a full-on contact. You flinched, letting out a quiet “ahh”, that made his loins cramp. It pleased him bitterly to know you were sensitive to his touch in a way that went beyond the script, even though it could hardly attributed be to his skill. He’d showed none as yet, if there was anything left of it at all.  

He had gone stale. Fallen so low, that he rejoiced even at the unconditional response.

The change of positions.

The action was coming to the moment he both feared and yearned for. There had been no rehearsals – on your request, which he couldn’t but support, even though your reluctance to let him close was an insult to his pride.

A pause for a good close-up.

Trying to be gentler than he had to, Ruston pinned you down to the sheets.  You weaved your arms around his neck and placed an imploring kiss on the corner of his mouth, and one more – on his cheekbone…and another…

“Your hair tickles…” the whisper had reached him together with your warm breath, a second before the third kiss landed just below his ear.

He was done with it. He could do better than that, thought he. He had to show you he could.

With a curt growl Ruston hoisted you up, letting you straddle him as you pleased. Your hair was tickling him, too, when he drew you in to leave not an inch between him and your glorious nudity…He needed just one touch of encouragement…Do it, he begged silently, now…  

“Cut!”

You pulled yourself up swiftly, slipping out of his arms like a wisp of smoke.

The set burst with light and noises.

It took a fair part of his reserve not to swear in full voice.  

That was predictable. He had to watch himself better.

Still, he didn’t deny himself the liberty of helping you wrap up into the dressing gown. You nodded your appreciation, but he could sense the uneasiness that had crept in, the same that had you avoid looking back at him.

“Did I mess it up?” you wanted to know, shooting a smile at the approaching director.  

“Surprisingly not you this time,” the man hurled unpleasantly.  

The dismissive tone grated on Ruston. That was Jacob to a T. A loud piece of human mess, who could pass for a hobo any day, but was rarely recognized as a director – and almost never by those he was supposed to guide and instruct.

The attempts to assert himself with the cast and crew mostly translated into him being rude to those whose single day on set cost more than his whole pathetic filmography.

“You’re not a gentleman,” said he, lending you a hand, as you were getting out of bed.  

“You’re too much of it today,” retorted Jacob with a huff, “A break, everyone!” barked he into the hall.  

The crew split up noisily, happy to make a pause way ahead of the schedule.

An assistant showed a paper cup into Ruston’s hand and skipped away to distribute the rest of the drinks.

He’d prefer something other than the piss-poor coffee, but it wasn’t even midday yet. That would have to wait.  

Just like any other day, he considered inviting you for lunch. Somewhere far from this part of the town. The locality was getting on his nerves. It was bland and insipid, just like the movie being made. Not a challenge for him.

In all truth, he didn’t even try. He picked up the part for the sole, and a rather selfish purpose of hearing you confess your love for him on a daily basis. Of having you seek to hold his hand, or look him in the eyes with so much longing, that even he was starting to believe you.

The breaks between the scenes were satisfying in a different way. You never really tried to cut the distance between you and him, but there were always those random things you brought up, that created the impression he was invited into your life. “I saw a robin today,” you would say out of the blue. ‘A kingdom for some tea…’ , ‘the subway has my umbrella now…”

‘Your hair tickles…’

You had crept under his skin too easily.

His mood didn’t improve in the least, as he spotted Jacob heading his way again.

“Ruston, what the hell is wrong with you today?” demanded he angrily, “She wants you. You don’t want her.  Easy as shit. Don’t give me the funking honeymoon here.”

Ruston kept silence, sipping on his coffee and feeling the irritation strengthen with each second.

Some people were like bears. One had to play dead around them to preserve life and sanity.  

“A pity shag? Know what it is?”

Then again, some bears were brighter than certain people.

“I don’t,” confessed Ruston in a tone of open mockery, “But I’m sure that you, with your vast experience, will enlighten me.”

Jacob shot him a dirty look, and he returned the favour gladly.  

“Be careful, Ruston. I took you in, I can chuck you out.”

Ruston sneered. Jacob’s company was a burden, but, in absence of other distractions, he could pass for an entertainment, too.

“Feed my lawyers, I beg you,” invited he over the rim of his cup.

He finally caught sight of you by the curtained window, your mobile keeping you distracted from the fuss around. You were silent, listening to someone on the other end of the line. The invisible babbler didn’t seem be running out of words soon, but you didn’t mind it.

“What a prize, huh?” grunted Jacob at his elbow.

Ruston barely heard him.

There you chuckled against the speaker. Your face softened and lit up with the faintest of smiles, affectionate beyond any decency.

The pang of jealousy was vicious.

“Costs me a fortune, but that’s OK,” Jacob went on, oblivious to the lack of attention, “She’ll get Daddy something better.”

He recognized the expression easily. You wore it for those special, one-on-one shoots, the ones that required pure tenderness on your part, and, sadly, nothing more than condescension on his.

It was deeper this time, more complex and certainly more sincere.  

“Rhys Burrow, my friend,” Jacob was triumphant, “She’ll get me Rhys Burrow. The Rhys Burrow. The star of the millennium! How’s that, huh?”

You switched off the mobile and smiled to yourself again. Ruston forced himself to look away. Nothing good was coming of it.

“Where ever from?” asked he in a clipped voice.

He wasn’t looking forward to hearing the answer. He knew something of the way Jacob lured the red carpeters into his twaddles.  

“From between her legs!”

The sodding imagination did it to him without any mercy. The leech had a knack with words that soiled everything he spoke about.

“It’s not even in the news already,” Jacob patted him on the shoulder, “You need to socialize more, my friend.”  

Ruston made a jerky move, fighting back a surge of anger. What he needed was to muzzle the guy into a bowl of caustic soda. Feed him a mouthful of it to wash the bloody yapper all the way down to the stomach.

“I’m afraid our ideas of socializing are dissimilar,” deadpanned he and shut himself up on that.    

“Whatever,” the director grinned, “He will be here for some of it. I would.”

“I hate to trample on your rainbows,” Ruston said waspishly, “But Rhys Burrow can eat you for dinner. Though I doubt he feeds on trash. Now if you excuse me.”

To level oneself with Jacob was below the standards of any self-respecting man.

There was still plenty of time till lunch hours. He had all chances to extend his invitation to you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Dragon’s Share, Part 2.**

_Hell hath no fury…_

Rhys chewed on the words mindlessly, crumpling a cigarette between his fingers.

The pub hall was overcast with grayish haze, a fair part of it coming out of his own mouth.

Chain-smoking the cheapest stuff gave him a release he wouldn’t expect to find in such an innocent pastime. He had picked up the habit from a role years ago. That character didn’t end well, although it had nothing to do with his unhealthy practices.

He missed the guy now and then. They had much in common.

As for now, he savoured the guilty pleasure of letting himself rot on the inside. Each drag tasted sour and bitter and had him bathe in a charming fling of sulfur. He probably smelled like a public ashtray.

There was something inexplicably attractive in being disgusting by choice.  

Rhys drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs with stenchful fumes up to the brim, and took a chance with the next page.

The cameras loved you, that was for sure. It wasn’t an overstatement to say he shared the sentiment.

Contrary to the popular opinion, the idea of falling in love didn’t run against his nature. He was aged and cynical enough to accept that he’d have to swoop at you before there was a line. You had found him in his ready-to-go stage, and he allowed you to tame him without any resistance.

He easily considered it one of the best decisions in his life.  

It entertained him to watch potential suitors merge into the background when he appeared by your side with the smile he knew was regarded as threatening even when he didn’t mean it. Sometimes he tarried for the pure fun he was getting from seeing them fumble and melt into awkward mess, when you appeared within their reach.

But oh, it was not a bit pleasant this time.

Staring at the glossy magazine spread under his hands, Rhys pondered whether he’d have taken it easier if the man was someone less eligible than Spring.  

He’d been prepared for the promo campaigns and what they usually brought on. He remembered the times when he would let himself be caught in scandalous settings to fuel up the audience. His five over someone’s tailbone making it to the headlines and boosting the box office by a couple of hundred K.  An ugly break-up scene, so carefully rehearsed, adding another to his own pocket money.    

And still, this particular article had him vibrate with rage.  

Geared at an average housewife, the photos were next to innocent. Prim like the peeps of a royal family tea party. Two of three shots from the most recent press conference, a behind-the-scene and a random paparazzi success.

Ruston Spring offering you his arm on the way out of a cafe. Ruston Spring telling off a brash reporter. Ruston Spring and yourself, almost touching heads in concentration over the script in a corner of what looked like a bedroom set.

Ruston Spring everywhere, tall, mature and arrogant, a spitting image of a bloody Oberon, sidekicking his Titania.

The narrative didn’t make it better, summing up the general fanbase hysteria on how your stage beau looked like he was made to be partnered with you, in more than just one sense.

Rhys flipped the ash over the table. His hand felt stark and trembled with tension.  

The anger was so strong that he could vomit it up like a third-rate booze.

He could really benefit from gloating at the whole thing. All smitten by you, Spring was damaging himself in a hardcore, old-fashioned style. His body language yelled surrender, that he, cherishing some vain illusions, didn’t intend to mask. Surrender and that particular kind of determination one could often see in people of his type. He clearly signaled that he was ready to fight for you. Each gesture, each offhand glance into the camera was a blatant declaration of war.

It didn’t take a genius to guess whom it was meant for.

Too bad, Rhys thought unkindly, taking out his mobile to speed-dial a very private emergency number. He hadn’t had a need in that one for quite a while, but old friendships were never forgotten.  

Too bad for Ruston to have run against someone who fancied slaughters over duels. Overall, he was a decent man. 

Just too decent to be left as is.

The long signals were interrupted with a drunk ‘hello’.

“Ruston Spring,” said he instead of a greeting, “Make it raw, would you.”

The recipient cut off almost immediately.

One last drag, Rhys pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and stubbed it against the page, twisting the smoldering end in slowly. He repeated the procedure again and again, with the utmost care, until the heat destroyed each face that belonged to His Fairy Highness Spring.

There it was.

With a feeling of marginal satisfaction he tapped another cigarette from the half-empty pack. A look at the watch made him reconsider the intention and reach for his coat instead. The inner pocked yielded a rum-flavoured cigarillo, which he stuck between his teeth absentmindedly.

Just in time for the mobile to come alive again with a short beep.

He took a pause before answering the call, unsure he’d be able to handle it right and proper at the moment. 

“Yes, treasure.”

“I’m in.”

Rhys closed his eyes, visualizing you, with the phone pressed to your ear and a smile ready to touch your lips. 

He gathered you had to be almost smiling. It was in your voice.

Against all expectations, his anger deepened, now mixed with nearly a childish resentment.        

“Coming,” responded he at last, “Dying for a whiskey. Get me one, please.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I decided to break P3 into 2 pieces, for the ease of reading.

**Dragon’s share, Part 3(1)**

“Threats? You’re going to threaten me?”

The man nodded, a good-natured smile on his lips. He had very much the air of a teacher, satisfied with his pupil’s quick wits.

The best thing Ruston could do was to raise a brow. A fake substitute for a natural response.

“Pray you forgive me, if I don’t look impressed,” said he coldly, “I avoid acting, when I’m not paid for it.”

Burrow rolled his eyes.

 “Amateur,” stated he in a condescending drawl.“Not all of us need extra practice to please the audience.”Ruston knew he had to put more reserve into his comebacks, but the day had already been enough of a disappointment, and if there was anyone to blame for it, it was the swaggerer in front of him.  

Otherwise he’d had to blame you, for being so stubborn and committed. And himself, for nursing some expectations even now, one more disastrous evening up his belt.

He couldn’t say you had been completely unresponsive. He was not that of a failure not to succeed in making a woman admire him, when he wanted, and yes, this time there had been no lack of determination on his part. But the result of his attempts was far from desirable. Your laughs became softer and there was a certain degree of appreciation in your return pleasantries, yet that was the only height he could achieve. You clearly treated him like a work of art rather than a lover wannabe, showing no intention of changing your mind willingly.   

He had a strong wish to see how Burrow behaved, when he was with you. What he had done to win you. And if he was the one to dance or the one to play the music.

Burrow smiled again. He did that a lot, as if he knew it made him especially unattractive.

“You’re a good guy, Spring,” said he, “I’d play it with you, if I had more time.” 

Uncrossing his long legs, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a gaudy plastic lighter. The button made a dry click-clack. Burrow squinted at the flame that sprang out readily. The reflections swam and spread between his narrowed eyelids, making his eyes glow with dirty gold.  

“I admit that I was tempted to make it physical at first, but it’s too messy a job. So let’s agree you can go and woo her in public for now. I don’t want her to pay the damages to that…plate of filth, your director. But don’t you push it. You’re being a bother.”

“Am I?” inquired Ruston in a tone of calm mockery, “She never mentioned it.”

The visitor moved, letting one spasmodic tilt of the head slip in, then leaning forward slowly.

The lighter clicked again. And again.

“She never mentioned I’m a huge dick. Doesn’t mean that I’m not.”

Ruston sneered. It was entertaining - in a way. A less humiliating approach to throwing off the tension than what he’d had in plans for the night.   

“I would hate to argue with a guest. Glad I don’t have to,” said he unkindly.  

“Nice one,” admitted Burrow with a lazy smirk.

He was having his kind of fun, too. 

A dragon. Ruston wondered who had suggested the concept first and what his own role in that farce was. The man couldn’t really cherish the idea of squeezing him into the armour of a dragon fighter and biting through his backbone, once the sword was drawn.

He was old enough to know such stories were never about the glory and the victory. If anything, they were about a purring beast, a dripping sleazy cave and the stench of someone else’s rotting corpses.

And he no longer felt an inclination to be a knight errant, if it had ever bothered him at all.

“I heard no threats yet,” reminded he, easing back into the armchair and steepling his fingers.

Burrow watched him silently. The lighter in his hand was dead and still.    

“How was the dinner?” asked he all of a sudden.

Ruston ignored the question. 

The intonation wasn’t nice, and if he had to firewalk, he wished to make the first step when he thought it appropriate. 

The man blinked slowly.

“Forgive me,” said he in a minute, “I deviate. Threats…You were a tough deal. I thought I’d poke a finger in your taxes…”

The beginning was better than Ruston had expected.  

He couldn’t say the line of Burrow’s thoughts had come as a surprise. It rhymed with what he’d heard about the man. With some of his own surmises, as well.

“Is that what you’ve done to Troi Richards?”   

It’s been a couple of years since the Richards’ dynasty had crashed down through what seemed like the biggest tax scandal of the century. The scale of the financial misconduct was equal only to the scale of the penalty that followed. In mere months the monstrous, mighty, bloated Richards and Sons Syndicate was torn apart by auditors, who turned out to be extremely well-informed about all that had been happening under the carpet there for decades.

They used to say the Richardses had denied the bribe to someone they shouldn’t have crossed with. Or that the oldest Richards had quarreled with a bosom partner and was paying for it.

The whole family went from riches to rags in one, two, three.

The name “Burrow” came to the surface just once, when drunk Troi – back when he still had enough money to waste on drinks - promised to stomp on the actor’s throat, no further explanations offered.

Nobody took it seriously, or didn’t care enough to. In the end of the day, even the closest allies agreed that the golden family had it coming sooner or later. It didn’t matter who pulled the trigger eventually.    

“Yesss…I forgot you two knew each other,” Burrow shrugged, “No, I didn’t threaten him. I just destroyed him, that is all.” 

“Was he a bother, too?” 

 “His old men were. But that’s not your business. None of you, friends, hurried to help him, right? Anyway. Your taxes are tolerable. That it strange, by the by, with all this…” Burrow glanced over the room, then nodded at the empty bottle on the floor, “And your love for jewelry auctions. But yes, I was being predictable. Should have known better. Unfortunately, you’re clean. A bore and a snob, you are, but that’s a common knowledge. Seeing how you seem to be proud of being both, I thought there was nothing in it for me.”

He pocketed the lighter, stared at his empty hands for some time…

“Did she touch you?”

His voice was placid, but tension in the air jumped up a hundred points.

The light eyes went up, and Ruston felt his muscles toughen uncontrollably in response to the silent hatred in them. The man was corroded with anger. 

“Admit it, Spring, you hoped to get a kiss tonight,” taunted he, “For real, for all your fancy courtship. Come on, didn’t she throw you a bone? Was there a peck on the cheek? Or did you lick her hand, like a good boy?”   

“Cut it, Burrow,” snapped Ruston, almost regretting he couldn’t “make it physical”, indeed, “I need my beauty sleep.”  

Burrow laughed, a short, jarring sound.

“I don’t give two spits about what you need, Spring. I’ll tell you what you don’t. You don’t need problems with your precious offspring. He’s in Europe now, isn’t he? Nursing his heart’s wounds?  Like father, like son?”

His face was a paragon of ugly now. The dry glamour was peeling off him like a snake’s skin, baring the inner monster in all his foulness.

“Now you listen here, lover boy. I’ll leave you be, but I’ll ruin his life in all ways I can imagine. And that’s a lot. I’ll make sure the earth crumbles where he goes. And I’ll make sure he knows why. How about that?”

There was a moment when Ruston believed he would lose it. The stab was painful. Bitterly unexpected. And this time, the fault was all his.

He should have seen it coming.

He tarried with the answer, waiting for the red shroud before his eyes to thin out on its own. There was no point in raging, unless he intended to please the ghoul even more.

“If you touch him, I’ll bury you,” promised he quietly. He didn’t need to raise his voice to be convincing on the matter.

“Perhaps,” said Burrow, not looking away, “But first I’ll watch you burn…”  

Unwilling to accept his defeat that easily, Ruston gave himself a break and said nothing. 

He admitted he was nailed to the wall for now. But he still had enough self-respect to refuse calling it an end.   

They were sitting in silence, like a pair of old pals, too comfortable in each other’s presence to speak up and ruin the quiet moment.   

“For a big bad dragon, Rhys…,” murmured Ruston at last, “You are exceedingly desperate. Was it something she said?”  

“You’re damn right,” agreed the man with a slow nod, “It was something she said. And you know what that was?”

He must have been tired of dramatic effects, too. The words that followed sounded vapid in contrast with all that had come out of his mouth by the moment.

And still stung worse than anything of that.

 _“_ She said _I do.”_


	5. Chapter 5

Dragon’s Share, Part 3 (2)

You haven’t yet folded your umbrella, but the whiskey was already up and waiting for him, like it was the first thing you’d taken care of. He didn’t like it. You hadn’t given him such an obvious slack up before.

Rhys wouldn’t mind you pampering him now and then, but the timing was worse than ever. He couldn’t give up on the thought that the sudden change in your attitude had a lot to do with the article on you and Mr.Spring, which he’d had the non-pleasure to get acquainted with.

Though it could very well be just him and his green-eyed monster.

The sight of you didn’t amend his mood. In a way, it added insult to the injury. The smile you gave him called for a kiss. He would be happy to oblige, and still didn’t move, not even as you stepped closer to him, an obvious invitation in your eyes.

“Close the door.”

You didn’t have to ask him twice. 

Rhys was in no hurry to help you out of your coat, either, despite the jittery feeling in his hands. He couldn’t guarantee he would not blow his lid, if he allowed himself one act of possessiveness.

Being helpless irritated him. He couldn’t feed off his anger, like he always did, and the anger fed off him.

The next thing that jumped out at him turned out to be a wine bucket, crying with fresh condensate. A treat that was miserably out of place in a dark and smoky private pub room. 

“Champagne?” asked he, “You’ve got another offer, treasure?” 

“No, it’s…” you made an elusive gesture, that explained nothing, “Just because.”

You were not all sincere. It was funny to what extent it jarred upon him now that he thought he had reached the peak of hurt and annoyance.

“Shall I open it?” 

“Later. May be.”

“May I, then?” asked he, picking up the whiskey. You nodded and waited patiently for him to give the beverage its due. He couldn’t believe he almost dreaded the moment he would have to greet you properly.

“I missed you.”

There it was. You were tired of his procrastination, and took it upon you to hurry up the things.

Didn’t he miss you, too. Pulling on a smile, he reached out for your hands, like a lover in a cheap black-and-white movie. The next thing he’d be doing would be pressing his lips to your temple pathetically. You wouldn’t allow that, of course. 

Putting your hands into his, you drew him closer and made him lean into you slowly, until his mouth was upon yours. and he groaned with pain it gave him.

He was kissing you very, very carefully, measuring the impact to the opposite of his intention. The whining ego in him was going rampant, screaming louder than the small voice of satisfaction.

“I won’t break, you know,” you told him hushfully.

“I don’t,” said he in a cramped voice, “Show me.”

The smell of his cigarettes, barely masked with the rum flavour, seeped into your hair. Your mouth tasted like whiskey he had downed, but underneath, there was still you. It never ceased to puzzle him how your scent remained only yours, even contaminated with his foulness.

For a nice change, he let himself daydream, while your kiss turned exploring and bold. He was never innocent enough to live in the moment. 

His trashy fantasies were centered around after-sex experience, where you’d lie naked in the firelight, your cheek against the pillow and with the shadows flickering between your shoulder-blades in time with your breathing. In his house, in his bed, under his weight.

He lost it quickly. His mind dove into the gutter, rewinding the bed scene first to the start, then to the heated pre-climax. He savoured every second of it, his lips and hands betraying the wish to play it right here, behind this closed door. He knew you wouldn’t be bothered for at least some time.

“Not now,” you whispered, pressing your palms into his chest to push him away slightly. He didn’t mind it already. The irritation abated, giving place to much warmer feelings.

He thoroughly enjoyed it when you insisted he sat down and then curled by his side, his arm draped over your shoulder loosely, just as he enjoyed the silence that followed, a long one, enough to smoke an unhurried cigarette. 

You were toying with his hand. He spread his fingers apart out for you, as you stroked them one by one, slowly. He sank deeper into the seat, still ruffled, but already tamer than a newborn lamb. The things you did to him…

“You’re like a cat,” you said, running the tip of your finger between his, up and down, “That’s what they do, when you rub their paws in certain places…Or else they bite you.”

Adding a tad of laziness to his movements, Rhys lifted up your hair and left a slow bite on the back of your neck.

“So am I a cat, then?” asked he in a low croon. You tilted your head back to study him without a smile.

“A predator,” you said after a small pause.

“A predator,” repeated he. 

He didn’t like where it was heading. The term he wouldn’t mind that much. It could pass for a compliment, if it were not for your tone. 

“… a dragon.”

Нe could do it, too. He loved the roles you made him play. His mental contours warped. The beast within reared its ugly head and swished its tail, lashing itself on the scaly sides in temper.

Yes, he could do it.

Rhys breathed in through the clenched teeth and let his voice drop to a deeper and huskier note. 

“Consider yourself Burrow-ed then, maiden. You can call the knight of your choice,” he pointed at your mobile on the table, “I suggest someone you don’t like.”

“I’m having dinner with Ruston tomorrow.” 

He didn’t manage to control his face.

“There he is,” you said, looking him straight in the eye.

It took him a while to master his voice. His best choice was to keep playing.

“He thought you were all his this week,” said he in the same raspy drawl, “Forgive him if he is smarting now.”

“And furious,” you added with a nod, “And out for blood.”

He raised his brow, the renewed pang in his chest an unpleasant surprise. 

“You’re not scared of me, treasure, are you?”

“I should be, right?”

“I thought you knew me too well for that.”

He was talking nonsense. Everyone who knew him well enough were scared of him, in one way or another. He’d made it a point to deserve it. And the smug fool he was to think you were blind to his reputation, that he boasted so openly. Some especially inane part of him had thought you liked him for that. Thank all gods, the rest of him took care to act differently with you, so you were at least in some doubts about his true self.

Now it it turned out he hadn’t tried too hard. 

You opened your purse and handed him a card of a fancy restaurant he’d been to a couple of times.

“What’s that?” asked he grudgingly.

“That is where I ask you not to come tomorrow.”

He took the card between two fingers, fighting back the wish to crush it in his fist.

“A posh one,” said he blankly, “Who pays?”

“The sponsors.”

So he was to expect another helping of the lovey-dovey photos of the match made in Hollywood heaven. 

“What made you think I would come?”

You didn’t need to say anything. Of course, he would be there, if not to try and ruin the perfect evening, then just to watch it.

“I wonder what Spring is doing now,” he had neither wish nor will to press the subject, “Bet he’s loving himself over your photo to some sappy music. I can do that, too. ”

“You’re nasty,” your smile was a generous pat on his back.

He was calming down with difficulty. The card was burning his hand, and he put it down with disgust. A kiss would make it better, but it seemed he would have to beg for it.

Someone will be paying for that bitterly. 

“It’s still today,” muttered he at last, “It’s been a week. Can you be just mine for now?”

“You won’t come, will you?”

“What if I do?”

You looked down. 

“….I like you…”

The unsaid “but” was worse than what he could imagine. His throat was contracted with anger. For a moment all he wanted was to crash and burn. To sweep you away to his house and shut all doors and windows, leaving not a chink to let the air through. At the very least to hold you tight without the bitter feeling of being not in control of anything his well-being depended on now. 

“I’m flattered,” threw he irately, “Put a ring on me, may be?”

You smiled a strange smile, the one he couldn’t fully interpret.

“I will. If you promise to wear it.”

He opened his mouth for a retort, and checked himself promptly, taken aback with your too literal reaction.

“What are you telling me, treasure?” asked he slowly.

Without giving him an answer, you reached into your purse again and pulled out a small gray box.

“Try it on,” you told him quietly, “It should fit.” 

Rhys stared into the box, at a loss for words. Champagne, thought he sluggishly, you had ordered champagne.

“So you want to tame a dragon, young maiden,” said he without any expression. It happened to him so rarely.

“One can’t be nobody’s treasure,” you shrugged, keeping the box open in front of him.

“It’s ridiculous,” uttered he hoarsely, “So plain silly.”

“Say no.”

A sly smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his spirits raised to heights where even dragons do not fly.

Get that, Mr. Spring. 

“If you think I’m such an idiot, treasure,” murmured he, taking the box into his hands reverently, “You shouldn’t have wasted your money on this.”

\+ + +

“One trip to Las Vegas, and you were dining with a married woman, Spring.”

Ruston let the air out of his lungs slowly. He had to react to the news somehow. And the man was waiting for his reaction, ready to gloat – already gloating at it. 

“Did she send you to me?” asked Ruston quietly. He needed to know.

Something in Burrow’s eyes told him he didn’t like the question.

“Does she know you are here?” insisted Spring.

Burrow jerked his head in the same lizardly fashion, clearly angered by the inquiries.

“Don’t provoke me,” warned he in a low voice, but Ruston had nothing to lose. So the dragon had a chink in his armour.

“What if I tell her, Burrow? Tell her everything. How will she like it?”

Burrow was silent. Then his face relaxed suddenly, and he leaned forward, as calm as he could be.

“Go on,” invited he placidly, “Make her unhappy.”

Not waiting for a farewell, he invited himself out of the chair and walked up to the door.

“Stalemate, Spring,” said he, before stepping out of the suite, “Best regards to your son.”

Epilogue

He was holding you close, his hands resting on your back, yours – on his waist. The dance had long stopped being a formal one, turning into something much more intimate.

You were dazzling this night. The way you moved in his arms, the way you smiled at everyone and no one in particular, the way you were.

“I’m not stepping on your toes, am I?” you wanted to know mischievously.

“I’ll bear it if you do,” said Ruston with a gallant nod.

“I’m afraid I’m a poor dancer.”

Your dancing skills were, indeed, far from perfect, but he didn’t mind it. He was there to lead you, and that was enough.

“May I break this dance?” the voice came from behind, “The bride is needed elsewhere.”

Ruston knew it had to end sooner or later. You slipped out of his arms and sent a little smile to the man, who stood in front of you with two glasses of champagne in his hands.

“More relatives, treasure,” said he apologetically.

“I’ll take care of them. Thank you, Ruston.”

He followed you with his eyes, dead sure he won’t have another chance to share such a comfortable solitude with you. 

The place was full of guests. True to his boastful nature, Burrow invited the whole Hollywood to celebrate your marriage. He flaunted his new mansion, the dark blue velvet suit, the new ring on his finger. He flaunted you, dressed up like a princess and all his. 

Burrow caught his glance and smiled, handing him one of the glasses.

“The wound then began

Which the earth-dwelling dragon erstwhile had wrought him

To burn and to swell. He soon then discovered

That bitterest bale-woe in his bosom was raging,

Poison within,” quoted he with singing accent, “Do you like Beowulf, Spring?”

“Depends on who recites it,” muttered Ruston, “Thank you for the invitation.”

“To new friendships,” announced Burrow, raising the glass to his lips.

“What did the Richardses do to you?” Ruston wondered, as the drink was through.

Burrow shrugged.

“Some years ago I fancied I could run a studio of my own. And considered some of them my pals. Dollars, it’s all about dollars, Spring. I had none and they had plenty. They wouldn’t wish to share. And I’m a petty piece of dragon’s shit. As Wilde said: “True friends stab you in the front.”.”

“You like quotes, Burrow,” Ruston put the glass on the nearest table, “I think I have one for you. So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings.”

“It takes a hero, Spring,” said Burrow calmly, “But you come and visit. Luck has it, you’ll see me catch a cold. And now excuse me, I have a bride to mind.”

Picking up another glass of champagne, Ruston watched the man come and sweep you away from a group of rapturous guests. You laughed as he put his arm around you, and in your laughter Ruston heard the notes of true happiness. He wished you to be happy. He yearned for you to be disappointed. He was tranquil and jealous all at once. Perhaps, all that was left for him was to wait for that hero, or that cold, whichever came first. He promised to himself that, no matter what, he would be near, would be there for you, when you want to notice that. 

He was patient. He could wait.


End file.
